


Any Other Reason

by mithrel



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blanket Permission, Fluff, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-12
Updated: 2011-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-24 13:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/pseuds/mithrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley had drunk a lot of wine over the millennia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Other Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Latin proverb: “It is well to remember that there are five reasons for drinking: the arrival of a friend, one's present or future thirst, the excellence of the wine, or any other reason.”

Crowley had drunk a lot of wine over the millennia. Syrah in France during the Revolution, Riesling in a biergarten in Munich, Chianti in a restaurant in Italy. He considered himself a connoisseur, and there were some vintages he absolutely refused to touch.

But it was beyond him why wine always tasted better in Aziraphale’s company. It was good when they did the Ritz, talking about nothing much at all. It was better in the poky back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop, the only light coming through the grimy window, just the two of them and nothing else.

As an experiment, Crowley had filched one of the wine bottles, on a rare occasion when they hadn’t finished it, and drunk it again later, in case Aziraphale had done something angelic to the wine (if he had, Crowley was going to refuse to associate with him any longer. He tolerated the angel, but there were limits.) He hadn’t caught him praying over the bottle, or anything like that, but after nearly a thousand years of associating closely with Aziraphale, he’d learned not to put anything past him.

But no, sitting in his gleaming white flat, surrounded by his gleaming entertainment system and his gleaming houseplants, the wine was excellent. Excellent, and quite ordinary.

It made no sense.

“Do you do something to the wine?” Crowley demanded one day as Aziraphale filled his goblet.

The angel blinked at him. “Such as?”

“ _I_ don’t know!” Crowley complained, waving his arms about and nearly knocking a precariously balanced stack of papers on the floor. Aziraphale gave him a dirty look. “Something angelic.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “Dearest, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m _fine,_ angel!”

Clearly the direct approach wasn’t working. Crowley decided to go about things scientifically.

Every time he met Aziraphale, he made careful note of the wine they were drinking. Then, later, he drank another bottle by himself, of the exact same vintage, purchased at the exact same place, at the exact same time, as near to identical as he could make it.

It never tasted as good.

After a month of this, Crowley gave up, and decided it was just one of those ineffable wossnames. No use trying to figure it out. He’d just as easily figure out why all his tapes turned into Queen, rather than ABBA or Britney Spears, or something equally annoying. (Crowley might also have been a bit drunk at this point.)

But his newfound resolution to let things lie didn’t last long.

It lasted just until his next meeting with Aziraphale, in fact.

And he hadn’t planned to bring it up again, not when they were in the middle of the Ritz, surrounded by people, but he found himself blurting out, “What the hell do you put in the wine?”

Aziraphale looked politely puzzled as Crowley closed his mouth in horror. “Pardon?”

“Never mind,” Crowley mumbled, debating the likelihood that making himself invisible would get them permanently banned.

“No, what did you mean?” Aziraphale pressed, and Crowley scowled. Aziraphale never was one to let things go.

“I took one of the bottles you poured us and tried it, but it didn’t taste as good. And I bought the same type of wine, but they didn’t either. At first I figured something about you rubbed off on the wine, then I thought you were doing something to it, but…” He trailed off, horribly afraid he was blushing.

Aziraphale smiled at him. “My dear, is that all? I’d have thought you’d have been clever enough to figure it out.”

“Oh, thanks very much, angel,” Crowley muttered, now annoyed as well as embarrassed. “Like you ever had wine decide to taste different when you’re with one person…” He trailed off again, a suspicion forming, but no. Surely not.

“Who says I haven’t?” Aziraphale shot back, and Crowley decided that, no, his life couldn’t possibly get any more bizarre.

“You have?” he asked suspiciously.

Aziraphale smiled beatifically. “Certainly. I seldom drink wine unless I’m with you.”


End file.
